


To Walk On Solid Ground

by zombified_queer



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Changeling Politics, Gen, Parasitism, Pre-Canon, Purple Prose, Surreal, The Hundred Infant Changelings, Xenobiology is Weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 19:27:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: To make a sick Changeling, you must ensure they do not receive the proper nutrients, keeping them always in a state of mild starvation.





	To Walk On Solid Ground

They convene in The Exile-Lecher’s quarters, the incense-laden air foul on The Founder’s surface, the polished marble and gold indulgences for Solids. The Vorta here dress immodestly, their laughing (a sound not permitted when working for the betterment of the Dominion) ceases the moment She glides across the floor, the Vorta falling to their knees, tongue-tied in fervent worship, an equally unpalatable display.

It’s perversion. Plain and simple.

The deeper into the Exile-Lecher’s quarters She delves into, the stronger and more sour the incense becomes. But also, the fewer Vorta there are until She is alone before large wooden doors with golden handles.

She compacts herself to the width of parchment, sliding under the door.

The Castoff-Soothsayer is here too. He glides with width of the room behind the Exiled-Lecher’s sofa, muttering to himself. The Exiled Lecher Him-Her-Themself smiles at two Vorta, two males kneeling with their backs to the Changeling, a horrific display of willfulness. But She-They-He pets both Vorta, hands running through their hair. Both Vorta are stone-faced and silent, a golden sheen covering every inch of their bodies. 

“You’ve come,” The Exiled-Lecher murmurs. “Your needs?”

“A hundred,” The Founder answers. “Sick.”

“Then give me a hundred Vorta.” The Exiled-Lecher smiles at The Founder. “Defective.”

“Defective?”

“Defectives, who are the the vessels of the sick infants of our plasma, are the most blasphemous of the clay we have tilled,” The Castoff-Soothsayer screeches, gliding across the floor toward The Founder. “Should the triptych of sexes conceive our unholiest of offspring, our domination over space and time, our very hold on thought and soul, will crumble to dust and ruination.”

The Founder takes a step back. She won’t admit it, but The Castoff-Soothsayer frightens Her. Where the Exiled-Lecher is content to be Solid and The Founder Herself is more content to be fluid, the Castoff-Soothsayer is neither. He is eyeless, yet catches everything in his stare. He is malting, roiling semi-solid constantly, as if unable to pick fluidity or firmness for Himself. His words, though, scare Her more.

“What will you do with the Defectives?” She asks.

“We will use them to host your sick offspring,” The Exiled-Lecher explains calmly. 

They-He-She swirls fingers around the left Vorta’s head, capturing that golden essence and tears off the veneer, leaving the Vorta underneath pale and emaciated, unable to hold himself upright. The Vorta collapses. In The Exiled-Lecher’s fingers is a perfect pyramid, black and with the tip held fast by the parent Changeling. 

A new Changeling. An infant.

“My poor, sweet vessel,” The Exile-Lecher croons, though not moving an inch to help the collapsed Vorta. “They’ve borne such a large number of my offspring.”

“And now he’ll die for your perversions,” The Founder answers. 

“No,” The Exiled-Lecher challenges. “Not death. Exhaustion from the burden, but now they may be allowed rest.”

The Founder watches as the Vorta, emaciated and covered in a sheen of sweat, falls into a helpless sleep. “They’ll be delivered sooner rather than later.”

The Exiled-Lecher tears away the veneer from the Vorta on the right, who also collapses into the floor and into fitful dreaming, chest rising and falling with his wheezing. This infant moulds itself into a rather blobby humanoid, clutching at Their Parent’s flowing, faux-robes of violet. “And yours will be delivered sooner rather than later.”

For a moment, The Exiled-Lecher seems amused, face twisted in a wide grin of all sharp eyeteeth and canines, eyes seeming to glow as the sun sinks, draining the shine of His-Her-Their gilded and polished temple. 

“Feel free,” The Exiled-Lecher purrs, “to make use of my servants. They’re just as delighted to be punished as they are to be praised.”

She-They-He reaches over, ringing a small silver bell. Into the chamber, four Vorta enter, heads bowed. Without a word, they carry the collapsed Vorta out. Two more enter the chamber and take the infant Changelings, who seem to delight in making it hard for the Vorta to hold fast to Them.

The Shapeless Twins change. One a snake, the other fog. When the Vorta manage to contain Them, They revert to their natural states. The Vorta simply laugh, gathering the Changelings as best they can in their hands to take Them off to some other chamber, a nursery perhaps, to be spoiled under The Exile-Lecher’s guidance.

“They will be well cared for,” The Exiled-Lecher states, “as will your projects.”

“Ruination,” weeps the Castoff-Soothsayer, roiling between solid and liquid states as an ocean does on the shore. “Ruination in procreation.”

The Founder leaves, uncomfortable staying any longer in the chambers of the outcasts. She will have news for the Link.

* * *

The Founder has to admit the room is well-equipped for Changeling infants. 

There’s Vorta to attend to their needs, provide enrichment and adjust the lights and humidity. The Vorta are less feverish in their devotion, simply bowing their heads as She wanders the nursery. They also dress more modestly, all black robes and steel-toed boots. Their manner is cold science instead of white-hot worship.

It makes Her feel more comfortable, more at home, even if the floors are gilded and the columns made of marble.

All of the Changelings are sluggish, barely oozing about Their small tanks, not nearly the primed offspring of The Exiled-Lecher who seem to never want to be in Their natural forms from the moment They part from Their Vorta. 

And yet They are not spoiled either for the Founder has seen the way The Exiled-Lecher’s offspring are coddled, all having one Vorta to one Changeling to tend to them, carry them around, read to and given lessons, taught many forms and shapes and styles. The Vorta nannies who tend the Changelings of The Exiled-Lecher take delight in talking to the infants, never ceasing their chattering.

These Changelings, sickly and stagnant, are more akin to livestock. Each is given a serial number which, when entered in the computer systems, shows exactly where They will be sent to explore the universe, learn about the solids. 

She hopes They will never know of the suffering it took to create Them, how they were ripped from Their Vorta carriers after a long period of starvation and dehydration, the defectives all dying off while screaming and clawing at their skin. Hopefully, The Hundred will never know Their births were so bloody. Hopefully, They are not starving horribly in Their tanks.

It is forbidden to Link with Them, but She feels compelled.

And it does pain The Founder to know They will soon be sent away without a single clue to Their nature, just as much an outcast as Their Changeling sire is or Vorta carriers were. To each of The Hundred, She murmurs something soft, well wishes and luck and safety, victory and mastery over knowledge, that they never be caught or captured. 

She does, after all, want all of them to return to the Great Link. Share stories. Share knowledge. Perhaps one of them might survive to change things. Perhaps not. 

But they are Changelings all the same.


End file.
